Symplegades
by Mischa1
Summary: A conspiracy, a static partnership, an uneasy alliance and a mystery that will have Doggett questioning all he knows. Work-in-progress.
1. The Beginning

Symplegades  
by Mischa (Prologue/?)  
feedback: mischablue@iprimus.com.au  
Rating: PG  
Category: S, A, R (Doggett/Scully UST, possibly DSR?),  
X-File  
Keywords: mytharc.  
Spoilers: general knowledge, 'Existence'  
Timeline: post-Existence, but not in S9 canon.  
Disclaimer: The characters you see here are not mine; they  
are the property of 1013, Chris Carter, and associated  
syndicates. Characters you don't recognise from the show are  
mine. No copyright infringement intended. As far as I know,  
Shoreside is a fictional place. No similarity to any existing place  
is intended (although, that would be rather cool...)  
Summary: A conspiracy, a static partnership, an uneasy  
alliance and a mystery that will have Doggett questioning  
all he knows.  
***Archive: Please do not archive. Thanks.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Shoreside Stay-N-Save, San Francisco  
March 22, 2002 -- 3:32 PM  
  
Expectant winds blew low in the air, carrying with them the threat of building rain rolling closer from the sea. Salt lashed across their faces, sinking into the microscopic scars left by time. Faces reddened with the biting cold, their feet crunched on damp gravel. The sleek white Ford Taurus was an anomaly in the parking lot, a jarring pale dash splitting the random Morse code set by the darker vehicles around it. He was opening the door, pulling the driver's seat forward, when she suddenly broke the silence. Her voice sliced the heavy air.  
  
"So this is it, then."  
  
Doggett rose from his crouched position, turned to face her. The winds were building now, charging through the sparsely populated parking lot. Her motel room door creaked. He listened to the squeaking hinges and sighed.  
  
"Yeah," he said, stepping out of the car to stand with her. The moving air chilled his face.  
  
The case had been disappointingly unproductive, and they both understood each other's frustration. A hand-me-down case. The kind passed on to The X-Files not because of any paranormal abnormality, but because it was scut work no one else wanted. It was irritating and wearisome and despite the reassuring return to solid, practical, methodical evidence, the case simply held no interest beyond his natural drive for justice. A tale of grand theft and federal fraud being propelled by base human greed, pure and simple. No conspiracies, no hint of the supernatural, just stupidity, manipulation and megalomania.  
  
Doggett had felt the same satisfaction he always did when he and Scully stood on the right side of the bars and faced the ringleaders, but the victory felt tainted. There was something more out there, he knew. While men did shady deals under tables and on paper there were monsters out there whose greed drove them to darker, inhumane deeds. He lived in a world full of wartime atrocities of a magnitude small enough for the world to ignore, investigated the sinister acts of broken men and women while the civilised earth  
insisted it was at peace.  
  
And there was no peace in the world, he thought, knowing he was alive by the metallic tang from the sea that collected at the back of his throat. He himself had been called peacekeeper until the rattle of shrapnel shattered flesh, and for all the peace he had tried to keep he had left with an honour of war.  
  
Doggett wearily shifted where he stood, and looked closer into his partner's face.  
  
Scully had been distracted. He knew she had seawater in her veins by her eyes and demeanour alone, but he had never thought she was the type to lose her focus in the face of it. In the beginning, she was all focus and direction even as the sea called to their less practical selves, reserving her musings for small quiet moments during stakeouts.  
  
Something had happened since those first few days, something beyond what their case could account for. She had shut herself off, hidden herself away in the refuge of her hotel room. Sometimes when he could bring himself to listen through the thin walls he could hear her talking. To herself or to someone else, he was never certain. It wasn't much of a surprise when she turned to him as they wrapped the case and told him to go ahead without her. That she would be staying to handle further business.  
  
When she told him, he knew... she was cut off from him already. That detachment... that was how the X-Files changed people.  
  
It didn't turn them into mindless crazies cooped up in a basement office, didn't make them turn on each other like starving rats in an enclosed space. It simply offered a little more scope, and in that endless possibility there was the reminder of reality. But where the monsters were harder and the circumstances more disturbing, there was also a sense of wonder that Doggett found himself missing when working on a mundane case.  
  
He wondered if that meant he was more open to extreme possibilities than his need for hard evidence allowed for, or if it just meant that he had his own passion for the unknown. For much of the time, he doubted both options. Put simply, X-Files were a helluva lot more interesting than white-collar crime. Crueller, more warped, but interesting anyway.  
  
But they were also developing insensitivity to their work, a shell they couldn't seem to break through for the simple act of communication. The kind of barrier that could make Doggett look down at dismembered bodies and not even blink, the sort of coldness that had once made Scully shoot a man in dead calm.  
  
The car door wobbled in the strengthening breeze and finally slammed shut, breaking him from his thoughts. Their faces turned towards it in unison, marvelling at the slow power the sky exerted on the ground. Stormstruck, they stood for a breathless moment gazing at the sky.  
  
"Doggett," Scully said, and bit her lip. Her usually neat hair blew across her face, a sign of the storm soon to break. "I'm sorry about this."  
  
"S'okay. If you need my help, you know I'm here."  
  
She gave him that sideways look, the one that saw all. Drew her own conclusions. "There's nothing you *can* do. Not here. But thank you."  
  
Scully moved like a mystery now, an incomprehensible being as perplexing as any X-File. Even her voice had muted from its  
usually strident contralto. Doggett wondered when and where exactly she had become blunted, by life, by her self-discovery, by whatever it was that was haunting her. Because he knew by the way he puzzled over her while flipping through paperwork and making coffee that she was starting to haunt him too, despite all conscious efforts. She was haunting him while she was still alive and he wanted to be there for the life that suspended itself deep in his mind at night, transitory as it seemed.  
  
Doggett was there for her now, but soon he would leave, because she insisted on staying alone. "Agent Scully?"  
  
She saw her contemplating self reflected in his eyes and regained composure. "I'll be fine, Agent Doggett. Really."  
  
"All right," he said. The door of Scully's motel room swayed to the rush of ocean air as they stared at one another. The salt was coming closer now, earth being beaten into submission by the sea. It stung. They blinked uncomfortably where they stood. He could hear the breaths Scully sucked between her teeth and wondered if the threatening rain tasted like salt on her tongue.  
  
"Give Monica my regards," she offered. Doggett nodded.  
  
"Will do."  
  
"Stop by Mom's and check on William for me. He'd love to see you again."  
  
"How long're you gonna be?" he asked, still curious. Scully was yet to give him a straight answer. On how long she would be, on where she was going, what she was doing. She looked at him and he could see a response forming in her mind.  
  
He never once stopped to wonder what would happen if he never saw her again. At the time, such thoughts were unnecessary.  
  
"I'll -- I'll be in touch," Scully promised, and Doggett frowned. All he was doing was just going home, and she was making it all seem so final. He trusted her instinct, understood that there were things she needed to do, but he still didn't understand.  
  
"Okay," he said, and it was all he could say. "I don't know what you're getting into here, Scully, but take care of yourself. And if you need anythin', just call."  
  
He had to trust her with whatever the hell it was she was about to do, because that was what she asked of him.  
  
Doggett wasn't expecting the sudden step she took towards him, and even when she was resting lightly against him for that brief moment all he could think was that Scully must have been cold. It was only when she stood away from him again, gazing at him with the calm, centred resolution he hadn't seen from her since the beginning of this case, that Doggett realised what he had missed.  
  
"Screwing up isn't part of the plan, Agent Doggett," she said, and he smiled. "Thank you," she added, before walking away to her hotel room. Doggett stared after her, smile sliding off his face in the rain, perplexed. The first hazy dampness of the storm began to darken his clothes.  
  
He thought he would see her again, and soon.  
  
It was an easy assumption to make.  
  
* * * *  
  
Location Unknown  
Date Unknown  
  
Somewhere in the yawning halls lined with silent stoic guards water leaks from the outside, dripping in a slow monotone that thuds counterpart to her heartbeat. The small of her back feels hollow without the solid presence of her gun. She knows it is the only way she would be allowed in there. Scully steps calmly through the rows of armed white-clothed men, meeting their gazes. The decorum and pride she had inherited from her military father, her ticket inside.  
  
Scully keeps her chin up, posture tall, not betraying one ounce of the uneasiness that fills her. Thinks of the partner she left behind in a motel car-park, and only now begins to regret not telling him the whole story. Remembers the afternoon when she began to discover the answers to her questions, and the charade she began in order to keep the truth from Doggett. She knows he was beginning to guess anyway, but she should have told him nonetheless.  
  
Yes, she regrets it now. Doggett would have been there for her if she asked, but left alone because she requested otherwise. Suspicion creeps into her thoughts -- would he follow her? -- but they're dispelled by the certain knowledge that he respects her enough not to try.  
  
And so she is facing this next stage of her journey alone.  
  
So many eyes...  
  
Watching her...  
  
They know who she is and why she is here and what she has come from yet they remain in their places, letting her pass through. Bitter triumph fills her gut the second she realises that they are going to let her get away with this. As long as she doesn't run, doesn't try anything stupid...  
  
Scully carefully examines each face. Searching for a flicker of recollection. Waiting for a signal that she suspects won't come in this silent, antiseptic precinct.  
  
And then, suddenly, there it is -- recognition.  
  
Quick, subtle, but her signal nonetheless. A gaze dropping and shifting away, skating against the linoleum tiles. Scully recognises this face. The clack of her heels echo down the corridor. If she listens beyond the reverberation, she can hear the wind outside.  
  
"I know you," she says in a firm voice. He meets her gaze steadily, and moves away. She steps into his vacated place to push against the door behind him. Scully registers the numbers on the door, but they don't ring any bells.  
  
Under the pressure of Scully's hand the door swings open with a wrenching moan. The echo, dull and metallic, bouncing along the walls until reduced to mere vibrations of atoms. She hears the rasp of breathing, her own, the guard's, the...  
  
All thoughts disappear as she stares into bewildered, beautiful eyes, and feels an aching familiarity.  
  
Yes. This is why she has come.  
  
She hears an odd chirp, a soft sob, and it is only be the involuntary clenching in her throat that she knows it is her own. "I've been looking for you," is all she can say. Her voice, so calm and controlled before, threatens to break, to shatter into the thick padded walls. Scully throws a glance to the cold white ceilings of the room, praying for strength. Those wrenchingly beautiful eyes still watching her, silent, understanding.  
  
Scully takes a deep breath, and holds out her hand.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
  
Filmy rain blew softly in Scully's face as she stared vacantly into the depths of the water below her. Even with her hair pinned back neatly the way it was, strands still flew in the air, dancing in the sea wind. They had run, and they had ended up here. End of the line. Sink or swim, do or die. She wasn't sure how much more screwing around by the unknown powers out there she could take, and she knew that somewhere out there, someone was laughing at her and the prize she had simply walked away with.   
  
She hadn't gotten away entirely. Yes, she had been followed. Yes, it had led her to this point, cornered by a foolish wrong step. She should have taken the time to familiarise herself with the area, to establish an escape route, but she was here...  
  
"They won't come after you."  
  
Scully spun on her heel, prepared to argue, but the chilling certainty in the speaker's eyes won before she even opened her mouth to argue. She breathed in the cold sea air, felt the splash of stray waves hitting the pier reach for her skin. The wooden structure beneath their feet was being beaten away by water. All certain things were crumbling now, and she feared what it meant.  
  
She was thinking fast now, because she really didn't have a plan beyond this. It had been too easy. All Scully had done was claim her charge and leave, and now that she was beginning to understand why she was being followed it led her to one conclusion.  
  
They *wanted* her to have this reunion.  
  
And although she had taken all precautions, right down to neck checks and impromptu medical confirmations that the blood she drew was still red, it all made her very, very nervous.  
  
"I should call," she said. "Home, Agent Doggett, A.D Skinner. I should call. Now that I know."  
  
She cast a wary glance to the man sitting quietly beside her, at his weapon. He stared back with a mixture of compassion and anger and terrible, horrifying knowledge. The snub nose was in the air, the trigger ready to be pulled. If it was called for. If it was necessary.  
  
Scully knew she wouldn't be calling anyone. Not any time soon. There were more pressing matters to deal with, like the gun in his hand.  
  
"I'm ready for this," she said. Her voice shook.  
  
* * * *  
  
John Doggett's house,  
Falls Church  
March 25, 2002 -- 3:02 AM  
  
The soft shrill of the phone dragged him like a resistant anchor out of the deep waters of sleep. Doggett switched on the bedside lamp and fumbled for the telephone, blinking in the harsh light. The brilliant red of his alarm clock caught his eye. Three A.M. Goddamn.  
  
He knew it would be her but almost didn't recognise Scully's voice, beating down the phone line in sharp staccato. Rain fell in sheets of jagged metal patters outside, split by bright broken lines of light. Jesus. Had all the stormclouds of the world decided to descend upon the United States in one giant invasion? Had the storm somehow tracked him down or something? As winter merged into summer all there ever seemed to be was rain.  
  
"John," she said. He could barely hear her over the roar of spinning water rolling down his roof. He listened closely, trying to catch every word. "It's me. Scully. I'll be flying in later this morning."  
  
"All right," Doggett said, puzzled. He paused. Something was wrong. She sounded tense. "Agent Scully, you okay?"  
  
He could hear her hesitate, fumble with the phone. Was that another voice in the background? Doggett couldn't tell. Then her voice was back, cool and even again. "I'm fine. Agent Doggett, I need you to pick me up from the airport."  
  
His own instincts were climbing up to high alert, warning him that something wasn't quite right. "Yeah. Sure."  
  
"Okay." Her voice was quick, official, tight. She rattled off her flight details and hung up before he could ask any more questions. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, and there she was in his head again, this cryptic puzzle only she could help him solve.  
  
* * * *  
  
March 25, 2002 -- 7:46 AM  
  
  
Traffic howled and crammed on the road, but he could handle it with ease. It was merely a matter of negotiating his truck around the barely navigable runs of traffic, around the stalled cars, shaking fists, and blaring horns. It helped, of course, that he had the kind of truck that wore its metallic scars well. If anyone dared to ram him in order to get past, it wouldn't be his vehicle that would bear the  
brunt of the damage.  
  
Traffic was the grown-up version of bumper cars. Doggett caught himself grinning in the rearview mirror at the thought.  
  
Tuesday. He hadn't seen Scully since Saturday. He hoped she found what it was she was looking for.  
  
Reyes was on time and direct as always Monday morning, immediately noticing Scully's absence. Doggett felt a pang of regret at the memory; somewhere along the way, he'd neglected to tell Monica of Scully's side trip, and Reyes was out of the loop and frustrated by that fact again. They had argued, reconciled over shared paperwork.  
  
Monica, at least, was receptive and clearly passionate about the work. She hadn't yet reached the stage where the mask of investigative detachment became permanent, and Doggett hoped to God it never would. He doubted it would ever happen. He knew her too well. Doggett didn't always understand her, Reyes made a habit of understanding him too much, yet the equilibrium they maintained was more than enough for them to work together without resenting the other's presence.  
  
There was a stall in the traffic, the futile blare of impatient horns. Doggett looked in his rearview mirror to gauge the numbers of cars behind him, looking for an opening somewhere. The mass of metal machines were slowing, but there was still room to move.  
  
"Jeez, you're a road hog sometimes, John," Monica had told him once in the office. Scully had overheard and smiled.  
  
"Burning rubber and road rage are always effective triggers for elevated levels of testosterone," she said dryly, and Doggett tried to hide his smile behind a brow-furrowed scowl.  
  
"Maybe it's the other way around," he had tossed back, and Scully had favoured him with a small smile.  
  
A long, low Mercedes swerved dangerously in his direction before curling back into its original lane. Reyes was unusually wrong when it came to this particular observation, but it was a running joke anyway. He was too used to beat days on the streets and choking bumper-to-bumper cars lining the New York streets to ever truly be the 'road hog' she claimed he was, but there was a certain appeal to racing and owning the road.  
  
Just not like the jerk peeling around in a car most would think too expensive to crash. On the race track? Fine. Out in the open road? The stupid bastard...  
  
"I should throw the book at ya," Doggett muttered to the gel-slicked driver of the Merc, and watched the idiot take matters into his own hands.  
  
The car he just barely managed to avoid clipped onto another in its pace, spinning across the road. Doggett swore and guided his truck safely away in an expertly executed defensive swerve. The spinning car in front of him regained its equilibrium and charged off down the road again, the roar of wounded pride charging from its engines reminding Doggett of the howl of a descending aircraft, bringing home the earth-born beings who had momentarily ruled the sky.  
  
A memory shook him, and he blinked.  
  
"I'm fine," Scully had told him, and he remembered her tone as he pulled into the exit and got clear of the thick lines of cars. Maybe he sensed trouble because the world was ending, after all. Scully was fine, and he was comparing planes to spaceships.  
  
As he navigated his way towards the airport Doggett hoped she was okay. Scully was a subject of much study for him, a complex language to be deciphered with concentration and care. He had learned enough about her to know that there were times when she spoke the truth.  
  
Doggett still had a lot left to know about her, but he did know this -- it wasn't one of those times. In those last few days he had begun to understand what was happening, but it all ended too soon for him to ever truly know.  
  
The traffic remained thick all the way to the airport.  
  
He hoped he wouldn't be too late.  
  
* * * *  
  
March 25, 2002 -- 8:46 AM  
  
  
Streams of people flowed and edged around Doggett as he stood waiting for Scully to arrive. He checked his watch, and echoes of the milling people crowded in his ears. High up from the speakers a voice announced delays and called for passengers. Doggett listened closely, just in case any of those calls were his.  
  
Something was wrong.  
  
He had arrived ten minutes late, expecting to see her, but there was nothing, only the busy run of suitcases and bodies. Doggett had checked at the flight counter, and Dana Scully had been confirmed as boarding the flight... but there was no sign of her. He had waved his badge, asked to speak to the flight captain, to no avail.  
  
Doggett rubbed his aching temples.  
  
Scully wasn't the type to hide out in bathrooms fixing her makeup, and with the local flights departing in such small intervals he had no way of catching up with any of the flight attendants.  
  
So where the hell was she?  
  
He pulled out his cellphone and dialled the office.  
  
"Agent Monica Reyes."  
  
"Monica."  
  
"John? You're not... early as usual. Are you coming in on time today?"  
  
She sounded immediately alert, concerned. Doggett sighed, glad for her unerring intuition.  
  
"Agent Scully called me this morning and asked me to pick her up from the airport. I haven't seen her. Has she called in to the office or somethin'?"  
  
Monica's voice dropped to a wary note. "No... she didn't catch her flight?"  
  
Doggett scanned the crowd. Nothing. "No. I don't think so."  
  
"Are you sure? Give her a half hour. Maybe she's had to check in her weapon or something."  
  
He shook his head. "I've given her half an hour, and I was late. Traffic."  
  
He would keep on looking, but he couldn't shake the feeling...  
  
And then, however briefly... a glimpse. Auburn hair caught the light and his reaction was automatic -- he turned to follow it.  
  
He stopped. He stared. It was impossible, and yet... he knew at that moment.  
  
John Doggett felt sudden weight sink into his bones, compressing him in his place. He gazed at familiar blue eyes, staring at him narrowed in questions and anxiety, and wondered just when the hell it was that you stopped asking yourself, or God, or anyone, all the questions that no one person could ever have the capacity within them to answer.  
  
****  
  
  
  
to be continued... reviews welcome! 


	2. The Running

Symplegades  
by Mischa (1/?)  
mischablue@iprimus.com.au  
All relevant headers in Prologue. Standard disclaimer:  
X-Files characters you recognise aren't mine.  
***Please do not archive. Thanks.  
Any and all feedback is welcome.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
The witnesses said she almost looked like a ghost, the woman  
with the deathly pale skin and the flaming red hair. They  
said she moved like one. Days, even weeks later as the  
federal agents and police officers streamed through the town  
to question them, they still remembered her above all else.  
That cold, determined face of the woman walking back down  
the aging pier with her companions. Trying to remember the  
image of the two people who walked beside her was an  
impossible task. All they ever seemed to recall was that  
woman -- the brilliance of her hair, and as she approached,  
her eyes.  
  
And the silence within.  
  
Some of the more judgemental ones parked by their  
comfortable seaside cafe said the other witnesses were  
wrong. That the woman had murder in her eyes, not death. A  
thick cloud of paranoia had hung over the three strangers,  
fuelling an irrational fire that glowed from deep inside. It  
was a fire that frightened the frequenters of the Port  
Greenstone area because they were peaceful folk, and didn't  
want any trouble.  
  
And so it wasn't the talk of her walking or her eyes that  
held the town enthralled.  
  
It was the running, the sudden burst of adrenaline flowing  
into swift moving forms.  
  
The shouts, slicing sharply across the seabreeze. The  
gunshot, its startled echo sending spirals of seabirds  
flapping in the air. The car burning rancid black streaks  
into the road as it screamed away.  
  
Speculation grew. Some of the witnesses claimed it was her  
at the wheel. Others insisted it couldn't have been, that  
she was left standing, left fallen. Confusion ran with  
exaggeration on the twisting road of rumour, and as time  
passed the stories grew ever more exaggerated. With only one  
common element -- the woman. With the red hair and the cold  
eyes. Many stories placed a man with a gun at her side, but  
not all.  
  
In the end, though, it didn't matter. Even as the cops  
combed sand and ground to find answers, it became clear that  
there was a greater mystery. A greater crime, if only they  
could identify it.  
  
For the dead, once they located it, left behind its sinister  
trace. An unidentified substance.  
  
The kind that looked like toxic waste, and burned the  
fingers of all who touched it. A mystery the colour of  
poisonous lime that ate through the containers they placed  
it in, and corroded lungs with each inhalation. Those  
supposedly at the scene claimed too many conflicting stories  
for it all to make sense. Was it a spill? Did the strangers  
carry some sort of biochemical weapon? What was it that had  
melted into the ground?  
  
Rumour turned into evidence, evidence into test samples. The  
reaction and calls were swift, redirected all over the halls  
of the Hoover building. Racing with the speed of flapping  
tongues. In an executive office a telephone shrilled by the  
piles of paper and scattered files. A hand reached for it.  
The voices spoke it all.  
  
Another missing agent.  
  
A so-called 'incident' to be neutralised.  
  
A superior, left to cover his tracks.  
  
He removed his glasses and rubbed his temples, frowning with  
the grim knowledge of forewarning. The only one who could  
deal with it, he knew, was now missing in action. The phone  
rang again and he reached for it, dreading the voice on the  
other end.  
  
Strategy. He had to have a strategy.  
  
All he had now were questions.  
  
* * * *  
  
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C  
March 25, 2002 -- 9:23 AM  
  
Shocks of frantic pace charged up her legs with each step.  
Down the corridors, towards the elevator. With each heavy  
footfall certainty curled tighter around her heart. Along  
the hard floors frantic echoes trailed from her steps.  
  
She ran like panic had shot through her at the sight of  
familiar eyes, like a gun was slowly being levelled in her  
direction, like the evils were rising again from files  
fringed with red and white. Her hand slammed against the  
button on the wall. The jar of impact, the soft innocent  
chime of the elevator doors opening rankled along her  
nerves. Her gaze settled on her reflection in the walls.  
Almost expecting to see someone else staring back at her, or  
the barrel of a gun.  
  
At times like these, empathy disturbed her more than she was  
willing to admit.  
  
Monica Reyes shut her eyes against her harried image in the  
reflective steel, feeling the lurch of the elevator moving  
under her feet. She felt far too much, and it was curling  
deep in her gut with the hum of foreboding. She didn't know  
*what* it was or why she felt it but she knew that both  
Doggett and Scully needed her, and now.  
  
Reyes had hung up on the chilling static coming from his  
line after three anxious minutes. Something had made him  
pause, and she had no idea what it was. All she knew was  
that Scully hadn't caught her flight, and that was it. The  
silence on Doggett's end had scared Monica, not because she  
thought he was in danger, but because she knew that  
something had subdued him into shock. What had happened?  
  
Her cellular shrilled as she stepped into the parking lot.  
She grabbed for it.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Yeah. You hung up on me."  
  
"You --" She was ready to argue, but dropped her point.  
"Tell me what's going on."  
  
"Agent Scully's gone."  
  
Reyes stood still amongst the cars for a single shocked  
moment, breathing in the faint smell of exhaust until  
dizziness rose. The certainty in his voice chilled her.  
  
"Gone?"  
  
For once she couldn't tell the emotion behind this low,  
controlled tone. Panic? Anger? Confusion? "A... someone  
arrived under her name this morning, but it isn't her."  
  
Her forehead wrinkled in consternation. What the hell?  
Uneasiness settled in somewhere low in her spine as she  
scanned the parking lot. Started moving again. He was silent  
again. Reyes listened for background noise but couldn't  
distinguish any.  
  
"John, talk to me. What's going on?"  
  
A pause. "Monica, I wanna be straight with you here, but  
I -- don't think I should tell you this over the phone. You  
need to see this for yourself."  
  
Reyes spun and headed back towards the elevator, hearing the  
sharp clack of her heels against the asphalt. "I'm going to  
the Assistant Director."  
  
"All right," Doggett replied. Monica rested her forehead on  
the cool metal wall of the elevator in frustration as the  
ding of the closing doors sounded. He seemed at a complete  
loss. There was no ready solution that he offered, and she  
had none to give without knowing more about the situation.  
An irrational, surprising wave of anger rose within, and she  
stamped it down.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" She had to stay calm. They both  
had to stay calm. A fellow agent missing in action, and --  
and *something* else... they both had to keep a level head.  
There was no talking or arguing their way around it.  
  
"Inform A.D Skinner. Tell him I want to organise a team to  
be out there, looking for her. A reliable team."  
  
Like the manhunt team that had been stopped in its tracks by  
talk of aliens and abductions? Reyes chewed on the inside of  
her bottom lip, knowing full well that he was thinking the  
same thing. Available resources was one thing, willing  
investigators another matter. Especially taking into account  
their usual cases.  
  
And then the fog of anger cleared and Reyes realised that  
the depth of Doggett's worry was far more than he was  
letting on. She kept her tone reassuring. "All right. I'm  
headed up there."  
  
Reyes pressed into the corner as the doors opened and a few  
other agents stepped in, looking at her curiously. Her voice  
dropped to a near whisper, nervous at the silence in the  
confined space. "And then?"  
  
"There's something I've got to do."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Silence. Reyes glanced up at the floor lights as the  
elevator heaved and settled again around its occupants.  
Bodies moved out of the confined space and she waited,  
catching the eye of the two other agents left behind waiting  
for the next floor to be reached. They smiled politely. She  
smiled back, still waiting.  
  
"John?"  
  
Uneasiness settled in a little further. Instinct told her to  
push through the closing doors, head to the stairs, and run  
all the way to the airport. She had no idea why. Confusion  
rang warning bells in her head. They were missing something,  
they didn't have all the facts, this was important...  
  
His silence unnerved her. God, she never thought she'd see  
the day when John Doggett ran out of words. The lift lurched  
and halted again. Another quick, acknowledging smile at her  
temporary companions and she was moving again, back into the  
business of the hallways.  
  
Reyes asked as she quickly muscled her way through the  
corridors and began making a beeline towards Skinner's  
office. Faces rushed past her, blurred and distorted as she  
moved. She felt dizzy. Like something was constricting her  
breathing, her movement. It perplexed her, yet somehow it  
made terrible sense. Empathy. Should she tell him?  
  
Monica bit her lip, and listened for him. Anxiety crept down  
her spine, and she couldn't shake it away. Reyes caught the  
narrowed, amused glance of a random agent walking past and  
smiled slightly, puzzled, in reflex.  
  
"I'll make it to work as soon as I can," Doggett said. "I  
want that taskforce."  
  
Reyes paused at the entry to Skinner's foyer, frowning. The  
A.D's personal assistant looked up with a curious, level  
stare. She smiled back, determination firming in her gaze.  
  
* * * *  
  
Port Greenstone Stay-N-Save, San Francisco  
March 21, 2002  
  
The night before Dana Scully walked away from Doggett only  
to speed into the blanket of fog and conjecture, they had a  
strange conversation.  
  
Through the thin walls he could hear her moving in her room,  
the pressure thudding in the old pipes as taps were turned.  
Doggett had shaken himself out of the comfort of sleep and  
mere minutes later he was knocking on her door, feeling the  
night breeze drift idly over his skin. When she opened the  
door to him her face was pinched with worry, but alert.  
  
"Agent Doggett," Scully said, not entirely surprised. Damp  
auburn hair hung around her face, making her look thinner  
and harder. Her thick white terrycloth robe looked like it  
could swallow her whole. An odd sense of shyness struck him,  
and for a moment he fumbled for words.  
  
"You're not sleepin'."  
  
"Neither are you, apparently," she said, and did her best to  
smile. He smiled back and she opened the door wider,  
silently inviting him in.  
  
The seaside motel had a strange bouquet of smells, salt and  
fish and freshly brewed coffee mixing with the earthiness of  
the town. Scully had the subtle scent of soap and lemon and  
something undefinable, and he breathed it in as he moved  
past her into her room. She gestured to the seat placed by  
the window, and Doggett sat. Ready to talk. Ready to listen.  
His eyes scanned the room. Its cozy, warm neatness was  
identical to his own room, only it seemed far more natural  
with her in it.  
  
Her overnight bag was still on her neatly made bed. A neat  
pile of paperwork sat on the aged, scratched mahogany desk.  
She hadn't slept. Scully moved the bag aside and sat down on  
the edge of the mattress to face her partner.  
  
"You all right?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah. I was just getting ready."  
  
"You've got a long day tomorrow."  
  
"So do you."  
  
The trivial nature of their conversation didn't sit with  
either of them too well. Questions hung on Doggett's lips  
and he didn't know where to start. She had mentioned this  
upcoming journey of hers for a while now, but he didn't feel  
comfortable with just leaving her here to head home. Doggett  
knew she needed her space to work, respected the seriousness  
of her trip, but all the same... he didn't have all the  
answers.  
  
"Here," Scully said, reaching beside her to grab her  
briefcase. She opened it and pulled out a set of manilla  
folders lined with the distinctive border of X-Files  
casework. "I didn't leave you with all the paperwork. I did  
my part."  
  
"Thanks," Doggett said, and looked at her.  
  
In the silence he could hear her breathing.  
  
Outside a faint drizzle began, a soft rainfall striking the  
roof for a few minutes. Scully's eyes were indecipherable in  
the dim light. He watched them, watched her.  
  
"Thank you," Scully said. He looked at her, curious. "You  
watched my back out there," she explained.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I know I can rely on you."  
  
"Agent Scully." He held up a hand. "Know now that it's not  
somethin' to be questioned. Never was, and never will be."  
  
A furrow appeared on Scully's forehead, and her lips pursed  
for a brief moment. "I know that, Agent Doggett. I wanted to  
thank you anyway."  
  
He shook his head. "No thanks necessary. Goes with the  
territory."  
  
Something in her eyes spoke of the same territorialism she  
felt towards her partner as he did for her. "Yeah," she  
said, and her gaze was clear with resolve. "It does. I just  
wanted to say it."  
  
Doggett nodded. Slow relief started to permeate the tension.  
  
"Why did you come by?" she asked.  
  
"I knew you were still awake." He had wanted to reiterate  
his offer of help, too, but he knew what her answer would  
be.  
  
Her smile was small and genuine. "I appreciate it."  
  
He nodded, and rose from his chair. "Well. I should be  
lettin' you go now. You need your sleep. I just wanted to  
check in."  
  
As Doggett turned to head towards the door, he wasn't  
expecting what she said next. Her voice was quiet, uncertain  
of her place.  
  
"You were a good father, John."  
  
He stiffened and spun to face her, confused.  
  
"I read the files. I spoke to Monica Reyes. You were a good  
father."  
  
"The files don't tell you that."  
  
"The files tell me you tried."  
  
"The files..." He caught her gaze and held it. "It's just  
paper."  
  
Something that was almost a smile quirked her lips. "The  
same could be said of every X-File. They all mean something.  
You care about people, Agent Doggett. That's a good thing."  
  
"He was a good kid, Luke."  
  
She lowered her gaze slightly, and he knew she was thinking  
of her own son. Wondering, perhaps, what kind of child  
William would grow up to be. "He was your son."  
  
They fell into a companionable silence, one that didn't ask  
or demand anything from either of them. He leaned forward,  
ready to ask the question he had been asking her for days.  
  
"Dana?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"You want to tell me what's goin' on?"  
  
"I can't," she said. "Not yet. I want to -- but no."  
  
He had to accept it. "Will you be alright?"  
  
After a moment she smiled. "If I need backup, I know who to  
call."  
  
Doggett nodded and exhaled slowly. It was all he could ask  
for. "It's late," he said.  
  
"Yeah." She reached out, gripped his hand lightly with her  
own. "Good night."  
  
Back in his room with the lights out Doggett couldn't help  
but turn to look at the locked connecting door, the sliver  
of light spilling from Scully's room and indicating her  
restlessness. A shadow crossed the glow, and crossed again.  
He frowned and sat up in the dark, wanting to pace with her  
until finally sleep took over.  
  
* * * *  
  
John Doggett's house, Falls Church  
March 25, 2002 -- 6:46 PM  
  
The delicate gold necklace sat curled within a plastic  
ziplock bag. Doggett picked up the bag and held it up to the  
light, grimacing at the dark stains that still clung to the  
links of the broken chain. Across the dining table a  
concerned Skinner sat, watching him suspiciously. Reyes  
stood by, her usually smiling face hardened by a grim  
expression.  
  
The suits they wore contrasted with the faded jeans and grey  
shirt Doggett wore. He looked less like an investigator and  
more like a civilian, but his mind was no less sharp.  
Everyday sounds were amplified by the tension. The ticking  
of his watch was loud, irritating. When someone shifted  
their feet the scraping broke the silence. Doggett spoke as  
he lowered the bag and he didn't want to believe what he  
said.  
  
"Agent Scully's crucifix."  
  
Skinner nodded. "We're running a match on the blood type,  
but it's hers."  
  
Reyes glanced at Skinner and then back at Doggett, a  
question on her face. Doggett's face was hard,  
interrogating.  
  
"Found at the scene?"  
  
"Eventually." Skinner's expression hardened. "Seems there  
was a bit of sloppy evidence gathering. They didn't know  
where to look, especially in the presence of toxic  
chemicals."  
  
Doggett nodded. The report dated from just two days before  
had made that clear. With comparison of other reports, all  
three agents present knew that the remnants found at the  
scene had the same chemical composition he had almost  
stepped in at an Arizona desert hospital.  
  
"And that's all we've got."  
  
Reyes stared hard at Doggett, frowning. He knew she thought  
he was holding something back.  
  
"There's a taskforce already on the case," Skinner added. "  
Evans and Scaasi, among others."  
  
Doggett nodded again. He remembered Evans and Scaasi from  
the taskforce investigating Mulder's disappearance. They  
were trustworthy, but then Gene Crane had once been too.  
  
"I checked out the story and Scully's description matched  
that of a woman who was seen at Port Greenstone," Reyes  
continued for the Assistant Director. "Reports are varying.  
We're in there now, trying to make sense of it all. What  
went down there on your case?"  
  
"Property developer who pulled a lot of felonies to get what  
he wanted," Doggett said. "Nothing to do with an X-File  
there."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"If there was, Scully would have seen it."  
  
"Why didn't she return with you?"  
  
"She was going on to what appears to be an unofficial case."  
  
"And you let her go?"  
  
Doggett frowned, looking annoyed. "She had discussed it with  
me previously. She knew something, and wasn't yet ready to  
share it. I wasn't going to push her."  
  
"What happened the last time you saw her?"  
  
"Am I a suspect?"  
  
"No," Reyes cut in. Skinner looked up at her, frowning. She  
stared back. Neither gave way.  
  
"Okay," Doggett cut in, "So you see me as a suspect."  
  
"You never arrived at work today," Skinner said. "Why?"  
  
Doggett's head started to ache. "I was trying to follow a  
lead. It didn't pan out."  
  
Skinner's cellphone trilled. He answered it, frowning, and  
excused himself. Reyes took the opportunity to grill him on  
what her instincts were telling her.  
  
"What are you hiding?"  
  
Doggett pushed his chair back and stood up, defensive.  
"Nothing." He walked to the kitchen and poured himself  
another glass of water as Reyes stared after him annoyed.  
  
"Don't you want to find Dana?"  
  
He couldn't believe she would even ask that. Doggett had to  
be careful as he placed the glass of water back down on the  
table. "Of course."  
  
"Then what's going on?"  
  
He rubbed his forehead. Suddenly he looked far older.  
  
"I've got to look out for what she left behind, too."  
  
But Reyes wasn't going to let him get away with a vague  
answer. "Which is... what?"  
  
Doggett focused on the scratches on his kitchen bench,  
putting his thoughts together. Reyes waited impatiently. The  
words were harder to say than in his thoughts.  
  
"There was somebody else at the airport. Someone who Scully  
sent in her place."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
(to be continued) 


End file.
